


Coyote

by PengyChan



Series: Heaven and Earth [7]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Awkward Crush, Backstory, F/M, Gen, Mexican Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 07:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16718809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: The first time Héctor saw someone die up close, he was grateful to have Ernesto and Imelda by his side - and failed to heed the warning.[“I like her, she’s got the heart of a lioness. It’s your friend I dislike. Eyes of a coyote. No, don’t like that.”]





	Coyote

**Author's Note:**

> This one took a while, but it's finally done. Héctor is still a crushing puppy. Shame the current situation is far from romantic.  
> (Also I seem to be making a habit out of posting stuff from the airport right before boarding a plane)

As the Revolution went on, the arrival of men on horses meant bad news for Santa Cecilia.

Federales were the worst thing, of course: they would come like a swarm and make demands – for shelter, for weapons, and for food if they were lucky. They’d give what they could, and the men would again be on their way. But sometimes they would come with more horses than men, and that was when every boy and man in town had to hide – when they would demand for men to join them and replace their fallen comrades.

Young, old, little more than boys – it did not matter. They were deaf to pleas of mothers, sisters, daughters. To refuse to join meant siding against them; to side again them meant death. Héctor hoped he would never understand that, never find out how a man’s view of the world could become so narrow: with us, or against us.

How many of them had been forced to join either faction in the first place, as they were now forcing others to? When that war ended, for it had to end one way or another, how would the survivors ever return to a normal life? Could they? He hoped so. The world seemed to have gone insane, with factions tearing into each other like wild beasts. Such deep wounds don’t heal without scars.

Sometimes, Héctor pitied them. Most times, he was just terrified – and that was one of those times.

“They’re coming! I saw them from the top of the hill. They will be here soon.”

“Empty horses?”

“A dozen. Maybe more. They were still far away, watering them before going up the hill.”

A heavy silence fell, and Héctor swallowed. There was a weight on his shoulder, and it was his father’s hand. He turned to meet his gaze. “Go hide,” he said, his voice quiet.

Héctor was barely fourteen, but they both knew that, as far as they were concerned, he was old enough to hold a gun and fire. Still, he shook his head. “I can’t leave you--”

“That was an order, Héctor. I’ll get you some food so you can keep away for however long it’s needed. They stayed three days last time, and almost found you in the basement.”

“What about you?”

“I’m too old to be of any interest, mijo,” he said. It was a lie, and a bad one at that. He wasn’t so old he couldn’t hold a gun. He, too, could be taken. “It will be all right.”

The thought was like a vise around his chest, and a sick feeling at the pit of Héctor’s stomach told him that no, it wouldn’t be all right, not that time.

“Papá, no. Come hide--”

“And leave your mother alone when they come to take what they wish? No.”

“She can also hide! We can all--”

“If they find no men at all, they will know people are hiding and start searching. And if they search, they will find you,” his father cut him off. “Why do you think so many of us stay in plain sight? So many fathers with sons to protect?”

Realization felt all the world like a punch in the gut. “Papá--”

Ricardo’s hand held his shoulder a fraction tighter. “Teto, listen to me. If they take me, I may yet live. At worst, they can take my life. But if you die, they will have taken my future and that of your mother. She can do without me, but not without you. If anything happens to you, we…” he paused and his features twisted, as though it was something too horrible to comprehend. “It would be the end of _everything._ Do you understand?”

Something painful seemed to be stuck in his throat, and Héctor could only nod to say that yes, he did understand. His father reached to hold him close and for a few moments he lost himself into the embrace, praying whoever may be listening for it not to be the last.

* * *

“I’ll get you a fresh eggs, just laid. Take the bread. We have some hard cheese and cold cuts, in case they stay longer and… for the love of God, stay hidden, all right? You have the map your father gave you, don’t you? Good. Don’t come out until the food is finished and even then, be careful. I’ll hang the sheets outside, you should see them from a distance, I will take them off when it’s safe to return--”

“Mamá,” Ernesto called out, and reached to put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. That caused Adela to still for a long moment, falling silent, and then let out a long sigh. She turned to look up at him - she’d had to look up at him for a while now, she was so _tiny,_ how had he ever been so small himself to fit into her body? - and smiled weakly, reaching to cup his face.

“Right. You’re a grown man now, and you’ll be fine,” she said, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks. “I keep forgetting that, Tito. It’s what mothers do.”

Ernesto grinned down at her. Truth be told, he wasn’t nearly as sure of himself as he wanted to seem, but he’d pull his teeth out with pliers before he showed how scared he was. To her and, most of all, to the cabrón standing in the doorway, looking at them with sullen eyes.

“It will be like a vacation. I’ll lie low and do nothing but eat until they’re gone,” he said, then, “I’ll take those eggs. I’m probably going to need the oil lamp, too.”

As his mother nodded and went to fetch the lamp, Ernesto sighed and patted his pocket, where a map of the old mining system was; the best possible hiding place at the moment, his father had told him as he drew that map entirely from memory. He would know; he’d worked as a miner there for twenty years, from the day he’d turned thirteen until the explosion that left him maimed, and he’d known it like the back of his hand.

Ernesto didn’t much like the thought of venturing there, given how he’d almost drowned in it during a sudden flood five years earlier, but there wasn’t  a cloud in the sky and the soldiers were a far bigger danger. He would take the food and lamp, and go pick up Héctor - because of course he would go with him; his father could grumble all he wanted on how a man hiding on his own was safer. Wherever they went, they went together.

Plus, he’d made a promise to old Ricardo. Héctor didn’t know that; he’d never seen nor heard his father turning to Ernesto and putting a hand on his shoulder, back when the subject of hiding away should more soldiers come had come up.

“If they come, keep him safe,” he said, staring straight in his eyes. “Whatever you hear, whatever happens, stay hidden. Promise me you’ll keep him away until it’s all over, Ernesto.”

He had promised, of course. He was Héctor’s brother in all but blood, and older; it was only natural he would look after him. And plus he had a debt to his parents, who had let him stay at their place without a single question more times than he could count, sometimes for days at end, when things at his own house became rough.

“Ernesto.” Estéban’s voice rang out suddenly, snapping him from his thoughts, and Ernesto made a face. He turned to ask him what he wanted, but words died in his throat when he realized he was handing him something - an old handgun, and ammunitions.

His father had had that gun for a long time, but before the Revolution Ernesto had only seen it used once - on a small stray dog, a pregnant bitch who had come scavenging for scraps around their house when Ernesto had been five years old. He’d thrown food at her whenever he saw her and she’d gradually come closer and closer, until he could _almost_ touch her.

Maybe eventually she’d let him, he’d thought. Maybe when she had her puppies she’d let him pet them. Maybe they could keep them, he’d thought, and had begun thinking of names - but then his father had shot her, for no reason. He’d had one of his episodes, those that had started after the explosion in the mine, and the dog - Ernesto had taken to calling her Zita by then - had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, too close to the chickens. There had been a bang, nothing like those of the fireworks he so liked, and then a scream that had sounded almost human.

When Ernesto had ran outside Zita was in the dirt by their porch, still kicking weakly, in a pool of blood. It was as though one of her sides had burst open and through that hole he’d seen… he’d seen what he had seen. Why his father had done that - he of all people, who’d often downright panic if he heard a bang - he’d never know. There had been no reason for it.

He didn’t remember much else of that day, but he did recall crying a lot while his mother tried to calm him down; he remembered his father yelling for him to stop wailing and for his mother to stop coddling him before he’d limped out, to return only three days later.

 _It was the accident, Ernestito,_ he recalled his mother saying, like it was supposed to matter, like he was supposed to care. _He wasn’t like this before the accident. It will get better._

Not a single word had been spoken of the episode since, as far as Ernesto could recall. The gun had never come out again, until the Revolution had first reached Santa Cecilia and the soldiers had almost taken him away; that was when his Estéban de la Cruz - now with a wrecked shoulder as well as a lame leg - had decided he should teach his son how to shoot.

“I don’t like it,” Ernesto had said, and it was true. He hated the weight of it in his hand, the kickback, the thought he might have to use it on someone. He’d killed before - not that anyone but Héctor and Imelda knew that - to return home, but it had been something he’d had to do, and he hadn’t had to look at the men dying after he’d lit up the gunpowder.

The thought of having to stare at someone and shoot them dead - watch them _bleed_ \- made him feel queasy. There was a reason why he’d let Imelda keep the rifles they’d taken from the soldiers when they’re made their escape; he was meant to hold a _guitar,_ not a gun.

“You don’t have to like it,” his father had said. “Just know how to use it. A few sleepless nights are better than a funeral, and I refuse to bury you because I sent you out there without defense. Now _pretend_ you’re a man for once, and see if you can hit that goddamn target. If you can waste your time with that damn guitar all day, you can aim and pull a trigger.”

He hadn’t been good at it at first - and he hated not being good at something - but his father, despite growing paler with each bang that rang out, had refused to let him stop until he could at least hit the target most times. And now he was handing that gun to him, expecting him to shoot men if need be; he would if forced, sure, but he didn't like it, didn't like it, _didn't like it._

“Don’t forget this,” his father was saying, and for all of his distaste, he took the gun. It felt heavy in his hand. “I hope you remember how to shoot. If you see an uniform, shoot first and ask later. Don’t hesitate. Don’t _ever_ hesitate, because they won’t. Understood?”

“Sí,” Ernesto said stiffly, and turned to leave. A weight on his shoulder caused him freeze. He didn't like that, either, and he was about to shake it off when his father spoke.

“Be careful, mijo,” he said. He hadn't called him that in a long time; it caused Ernesto to pause, and look at him over his shoulder. He was paler than usual, stone sober for once, and scared. They’d always looked very much alike, but at forty-seven his father seemed _old,_ his beard graying _._ Ernesto, who would never get to turn forty-seven himself, scowled slightly.

 _I will not end up like you,_ he thought, but what left his mouth was something else.

“I will, papá,” he said, then, “Try not to piss off anyone this time. If you get my mother in the line of fire again, I’ll shoot you myself. Not in the shoulder.”

That got an odd smile out of Estéban, one that seemed almost sincere.

“As long as you come back,” he said. Ernesto de la Cruz - who would walk out one day seven years later to tour Mexico and never return - smiled back and said nothing.

* * *

“Why the long face, chamaco? Lighten up, it will be fine. We'll have some fun time between amigos and come back to find our old men still there.”Ernesto sounded so sure of himself as they crossed the stream, hopping from rock to rock with practiced ease, that Héctor found himself almost believing him. Only that he’d known him all his life, as far back as he could remember, and heard him uttering the most absolute bullcrap with that same iron-clad certainty.

“Easy for you to say. You know they’d never take a lame guy,” Héctor muttered, and of course he regretted it as soon as it left his mouth. Ernesto just laughed before he could apologize.

“Hah, if only! If they took in cripples, they’d find my old man tied up right on their path with a big red ribbon and a side gift of tequila,” he said, and Héctor laughed a little - not because he found it funny, but out of sheer relief that Ernesto wasn’t angry at him.

“Shame we couldn’t bring a guitar, but I guess that would lead them right to us,” his friend was saying, and Héctor raised an eyebrow, eyeing the holster at Ernesto’s hip.

“Not that it would be a problem, Tito. With your marksmanship, you’d take them all down in a minute. Or shoot yourself in a foot,” he said, gaining himself a scoff and a shove.

“You wouldn’t even know how to hold it, chamaco. And I was always the best with the slingshot. It makes little difference.”

“Says the one who broke the Delgados’ window.”

“Says the one who got the Guzmans’ bull in the rump.”

“That was… totally on purpose.”

“If almost got us, pendejo.”

“But we were too fast. You especially,” Héctor pointed out, and returned the shove. “Who says you’re not going to run off on me if the Federales find us?”

“That entirely depends on how annoying you’re going to be now,” Ernesto shot back, but laughed, and ruffled his hair. Héctor never noticed the way his jaw had clenched for a moment. “Don’t worry, it won’t come to that. We-- I won’t need to shoot anyone. No one knows we’re here, and--”

“Hey, that’s Héctor!”

“Hi Héctor!”

“And... Ernesto?”

“Hi, Ernesto!”

“... Aaand now someone does.”

Héctor turned to see Óscar and Felipe barrelling towards them, their legs almost comically long for their thin frames - something he could relate to all too well, really. As they came to a stop before them, they squinted a little.

“Oh, it _is_ you!”

“We weren’t entirely sure.”

“We can’t see that well from far away.”

“Mamá says we need glasses.”

“She’s saving money, but we’re gonna build our own!”

“Once she gives us back our tools.”

“Which is _never,_ at this rate,” a very familiar voice rang out, causing Héctor’s heart to seemingly jump in his throat. He turned to see Imelda - because of course she would be there, the twins wouldn’t be out there on their own - standing a few feet away, with a bag over one shoulder and, on the other… wait, was that--

“Is that a rifle?” Ernesto blurted out, eyeing it cautiously, and Imelda nodded.

“One of the ones we took from the soldiers, yes. I wanted to be prepared,” Imelda said, matter-of-factly. “After what happened last time, my mother didn’t want me or the twins to be anywhere near town when the Federales arrived. But we could still run into some.”

Ernesto frowned. “Do you even know how to use it?” he asked, gaining himself a scoff.

“Better than you can use that piece of rust,” she muttered, eyeing the old gun at his hip. “Does it even work, or is it just for show?”

“Of course it works!” Ernesto protested, suddenly defensive over a gun he clearly hated handling anyway, but Héctor paid him no mind.

“Do you have a place to hide?” he asked, and Imelda shook her head. Her braid hung over her shoulder.

“Not really. We heard of the old mines, though.”

“That’s where we’re heading!” Héctor exclaimed, and smiled. He entirely missed his best friend’s grimace. “Ernesto has a map. We can all go hide in there. This way, no one gets lost. And we’ll have two guns, just in case.”

“I could defend us both just fine,” Ernesto muttered, and Imelda glanced at him only briefly before looking at her brothers - _“Can we stay with them? Please! They’re fun!”_ \- and then finally back at Héctor. She smiled, and his heart skipped a beat.

“It sounds like a good idea. We did well last time,” she added, and Ernesto didn’t seem inclined to argue against that. He shot another look at the shining new rifle - it seemed to displease him greatly, and Héctor wasn’t sure what that was about - before he nodded. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly normal.

“Right. I do have a map,” he said, and pulled it out of his pocket. It wasn’t really necessary, because they hadn’t even reached the mines yet and they knew the way up to there, but for some reason he puffed out his chest while doing so, and Héctor decided to say nothing. “Follow me,” Ernesto added, and he seemed really pleased when they did.

* * *

“... Tadpoles in the holy water font, really?”

“Yes, people at the parish weren’t too pleased.”

“I do wonder why,” Imelda said drily, and Ernesto shrugged.

“We caught so many, may as well put them somewhere. I also put one in his glass,” he added, causing Héctor to scowl. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, with his back against a wall of the old mine shaft, he scowled.

“I remember it all too well, thanks. So, this _other_ time--”

“You didn’t realize until after drinking it.”

“I remember. Thanks,” Héctor gritted out, hoping against hope the heat on his face did not mean he was blushing. He wished he could kick Ernesto without being obvious, and instead he reached behind his back to pinch him. That only caused his friend’s grin to widen.

“You cried,” he muttered. The twins laughed, and Imelda… Héctor wasn’t sure, he didn’t dare look at her face. If he died right there and then of sheer embarrassment, he told himself, he was going to haunt Ernesto’s nightmares for the rest of his life.

“Because you told me it was going to grow into a frog in my stomach!”

“So gullible.”

“I was six!”

“And gullible,” Ernesto repeated, but he seemed to take notice of the desperate expression on his face, because he finally changed subject. “Oh, tell them about the church rooster!”

One of the twins blinked. “Church rooster?”

“Oh, you didn’t live here yet, but it was the talk of the town for weeks! We set a rooster free in the church on Sunday - they never knew it was us, though.”

“Which is why we’re still here to tell the tale.”

“Sister Gregoria would have _strangled_ us. So, old Pedro had this rooster, right? I caught the rooster--”

“Hey now, _I_ caught the rooster.”

“But I drove it to you.”

“Right. Let’s say it was, uh…”

“A coordinated effort.”

“Yes, that. A coordinated effort to get the rooster. It didn’t make it very easy.”

“And it kept trying to peck your eyes out. Good thing your nose was in the way.”

“Gee, _thanks._ Anyway, we had the rooster, so we put  it in a bag and headed to church.”

A small hand shot up. “I have a question.”

“Yes, er…?”

“Felipe,” Imelda spoke up for the first time in several minutes. She was sitting across them in the tunnel, the oil lamp casting deep shadows on her face, but Héctor could tell she was smiling. He smiled a little himself.

“Right. What is it, Felipe?”

“Actually, he’s Óscar,” his brother spoke up. “I am Felipe.”

“Oh! Sorry, I thought--” Héctor began, only to trail off when Imelda’s hands smacked both twins on the back of the neck. It wasn’t too strong, but it caused them both to yelp.

“Don’t listen to them,” she said, humor plain in her voice. “They try to pull this trick on everyone. This is Óscar,” she pulled the ear of the boy at her right, “and this is Felipe,” she added, pulling the other’s ear as well. As the kids protested, Héctor grinned.

“Got it. Well, we did it because… er…” he paused, and turned to glance at Ernesto. “Help me out there. Why did we do it?”

Ernesto shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Anyway, we went to Mass, got the chicken in and somehow no one noticed. I left the sack behind a confessional--”

“I did that,” Héctor pointed out. He normally didn’t mind at all when Ernesto got mixed up over who had done what, but now that Imelda was smiling over the tale of their caper years ago, he found he wanted full credit for that. It had been a risk, after all.   

Ernesto rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. Héctor left the sack behind the confessional, and Mass started. It... took it a while to break free, really. We had to sit through most of it.”

“It got out of the sack just as the priest pulled out the holy bread,” Héctor said, with no small amount of pride. As Óscar and Felipe leaned forward, faces split in identical grins, he shot a glance at Imelda. She was trying not to smile too widely - after all, he was telling her about something they _definitely_ were not supposed to ever do, setting a rooster free in a church - but her lips curled upwards anyway. “It went straight for it.”

“Took it right out of the old man’s hands,” Ernesto confirmed, and folded his hands in front of the oil lamp, casting a shadow on the wall that could have been a very misshapen bird. He crooned, and the shadow on the wall attacked Héctor’s, who flailed his arms like Padre Edmundo had back then, throwing holy bread and wine everywhere.

“God in Heaven!” he cried out in a near-perfect imitation of his voice, and the twins doubled over, howling with laughter. Héctor joined them, but laughter died in his throat when Imelda spoke suddenly.

“Not so loud! We’re _hiding,_ remember?” she hissed, causing her brothers to fall quiet and Ernesto to scoff.

“Are you allergic to fun all of a sudden?”

“Someone could hear us!”

“We’re pretty damn deep in the mine. It’s not like someone is going to just be taking a stroll here to hear us--”

_“Yowchgoddammit!”_

The voice that rang out was one Héctor had never heard and, as it reverberated down the shaft of the mine, it seemed as loud as a gunshot. Several things happened almost at the same time: they all jumped on their feet, the twins stepped behind their sister, and both Imelda and Ernesto - she handled the rifle with more ease than he did his gun - pointed their weapons towards the source of the noise, which had come from behind a bend. Not knowing what else to do, Héctor picked up the lamp to hold it up… and then they were all still and silent for several moments, barely daring to breathe.

“Hijos de-- de--” there was a groan and, right afterwards, the sound of something dropping not too far way. Of _someone_ dropping.

Instinctively, Héctor took a couple of steps towards the sounds - only to stop short when Ernesto held out one arm, holding him back. “Don’t, chamaco.”

“But someone is hurt--”

“He’s right,” Imelda cut him off. She was still holding up the rifle, eyes fixed on the bend. “Might be a trap.”

“It could be someone from town…”

“That’s not a voice I know.”

“But--” Héctor trailed off when another muttered curse rang out, followed by a choked-out cry of pain. It made him shudder. “We can’t just stand here!”

“Watch me,” Ernesto muttered, but Imelda seemed to hesitate before nodding.

“I’ll go have a look. You stay here.”

“What?”

“No!”

“Don’t go, Imelda!”

As the twins reached to grasp her gown, and Imelda looked down at them speechlessly, Ernesto let out a groan. “Uuugh, fine. Fine. I’m going,” he muttered. “Not like I can go back and tell my old man and let a girl go ahead.”

Imelda narrowed her eyes. “I know how to use the rifle.”

“But the tunnel is narrow and my gun is easier to handle,” Ernesto retorted, and she fell silent, grudgingly conceding the point. Héctor tried to step forward, but Ernesto held out his arm again. “You stay here.”

“But you’ll need the light--”

“To make me an easy target?” Ernesto snapped back, but his expression softened when he looked down at him. “Stay here, hermanito. I promised your old man you’d be safe. That’s what big brothers are for, no?”

Something in Héctor’s chest hurt, but he knew Ernesto was right. He didn’t have a weapon, didn’t know how to use one, and he’d be worse than useless if something happened. He was always worse than useless. He was lucky to have Ernesto looking out for him.

“Be careful,” he could only whisper through the lump in his throat, and Ernesto gave a convincing enough grin before slowly heading towards the sounds, gun in hand.

* * *

_Please don’t be a soldier. Please don’t be a soldier._

_Don’t ever hesitate, because they won’t._

_I don’t want to. I don’t like it. Why the hell would they even come here?_

_If you see an uniform, shoot first and ask later._

_If only I could see a damn thing._

As he turned the corner, walking silently and crouching behind every broken cart and rock he could find as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Ernesto sort of wished he’d let Imelda go ahead as she as about to, since she thought she was _so great_ with her shiny rifle and whatnot.

But he couldn’t, because he’d never hear the end of it and besides, Héctor would have insisted to go with her - and it wouldn’t do because Ernesto was supposed to look after him. _Him,_ not some little girl who had  turned fifteen just a couple of months earlier. Héctor was _his_ little brother and he couldn’t leave his safety to a twig who’d probably be thrown back by the recoil if she tried to shoot, likely without hitting anything.

Even back in the hills that night, when they’d taken care of those soldiers, she had given orders… but _Ernesto_ had been the one to set the gunpowder on fire. It had been one hell of a feat, and sometimes he wished he didn’t have to keep it a secret. Maybe it would finally teach the old cabrón that he was no longer a kid who’d sob his eyes out over a dead dog.

_Now pretend you’re a man for once and see if you can hit that goddamn target._

_You don’t know me, old man. You have no idea._

His father’s voice echoing somewhere in the back of his mind, Ernesto scowled and finally peered over the rock he was crouched behind. Now that his eyes had grown used to darkness, he could see a form on the ground - a man, whether in an uniform or not he couldn’t tell. He was motionless and, when Ernesto picked up a small rock to throw it past him, he didn’t move.

… Well, look at that. Maybe he was dead, and no one else was in sight. Now that would be a problem off his back. But why had that guy gotten all the way in there to die…?

Gun still in hand, Ernesto left his hiding place and went to kneel next to the man, the unpleasant smell of dried and fresh blood filling his nostrils. Yes, it looked like his new friend had dragged himself in there to die. An odd place to pick, but to each their-- wait, what was that on his back?

Ernesto ran a hand over the object. It felt oddly familiar, and he was taken aback to realize it was a _guitar_ of all things. And a pretty decent one, by the feel of it.

Well, finders keepers, Ernesto thought, and went to undo the strap when, suddenly, something moved… and a hand seized his ankle, causing him to let out a loud, startled scream. He fumbled to pick up the gun - why why _why_ had he put it down - but he lost his balance and fell back.

There was a cry somewhere deeper in the mine, a familiar voice calling out his name and footsteps, and suddenly there was light; enough to see that the man - cursing and swearing, face to the ground and trying to move weakly - was wearing an army uniform after all.

“Ernesto! Are you all right?” Héctor asked, lifting the oil lamp. Ernesto turned to see he was staring at him with wide, worried eyes.

“I… I’m fine,” he croaked, and stood quickly after picking up his gun. “He just-- I thought--”

“A soldier,” Imelda spat, rifle pointed at the man, then looked around. “Where is she?”

Héctor and Ernesto exchanged a glance before blinking. “She?”

Imelda returned their gazes with an equally confused one. “I heard a woman’s scream.”

Ah. That.

“I--” Ernesto began, a sudden sense of heat on his face - he had a powerful voice, all right, and it could get high-pitched when startled, nothing he could do about it - but Héctor got there first, sparing him the pain of explaining as much.

“Oh, that was a grito!”

She blinked. “A _grito,_ now?”

“It’s a code between me and Ernesto. So that I’d know it was him,” Héctor said quickly and, thank God, Imelda seemed to buy it. Ernesto gave a silent sigh of relief, patting Héctor’s shoulder briefly - _ay, hermanito, what would I do without you?_ \- before turning his attention back on the fallen man.

He was groaning, trying to push himself up on his elbows, and glared at him. He was a short, sturdy man with a bald head and jutting jaw, looking up at them with red-rimmed eyes. His skin was ashen gray, shiny with sweat, and it didn’t take much to guess that he was on his last leg.

“Hands off my-- my guitar, hijo de--” he gasped, then his gaze found Imelda, and shifted towards Héctor. He looked surprised for a moment, then he made a noise that sounded more like a bark than a laugh. “Hah! Kids! Hiding away from the Federales, eh? Smart of you. Should have… done the same when I could.”

There was a moment of silence, then Imelda slowly lowered the rifle, though not by much. “You were drafted,” she stated.

“Of course I was. They were picking kids off the street, if they didn’t take me it would have been one of them. But I ran off, you know? To go back home. Or I tried to. Some hijo de puta managed to shoot me.” The man grimaced, and Ernesto frowned.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting to die, what does it look like?” was the reply, and he lifted an arm to show something clutched in his hand - a bottle. “Made it through the desert and thought I could get help in this town, but no. Federales everywhere, damn it. I didn’t… didn’t escape my regiment to end up in the hands of another. Turned away just on time before being spotted. Let my horse go at the stream. A good horse, but I won’t need her where I’m going, you know?”

Imelda gave a slow nod, and finally lowered the rifle before stepping closer. “Where were you shot?”

“Leg and lower back. Nasty business, señorita. I’m not going to make it. Best if you shoot me. Would do it myself, but I ran out of bullets.

 _I have some,_ Ernesto almost said, but Héctor spoke first. “What-- no! You-- maybe you’ll be fine, señor. We can get you a doctor after the Federales have left.”

Another sudden, barking laugh. “Hah! You’re an optimist. I hate people like you,” the man muttered, and made a face. “Ah, but I’d like to return home. There’s someone I want to see before I kick it.”

“You will,” Imelda said suddenly, stepping forward, and Ernesto was reminded of something Héctor had mentioned - that her father had joined the revolutionaries and had never returned, killed in a skirmish.

When Héctor handed him to oil lamp and moved in to help her carry the guy - who kept wincing and cursing like they were poking him with hot irons with every move - he wasn’t especially pleased… but not surprised, either. Héctor had always been such a bleeding heart.

With a sigh, Ernesto put the gun back at his belt, lifted the oil lamp, and led the way back.

* * *

“Does it hurt?”

“Mph. It did, but now I can’t feel a thing.”

“If you let me take a look--”

“Not taking my shirt off in front of a señorita,” was the dry reply. “You’re no doctor and no nurse. Nothing you can do about it. Spare my dignity,” the man added, and turned to the side to spit before bringing the bottle of something that smelled like very bad alcohol to his lips.

That had been it: Imelda had just nodded, and moved to the end of the tunnel with her brothers, likely to spare them the sight; they had been staring at the man with more curiosity than fear, as Héctor supposed was normal for kids. He sort of wished he could go with them, because he didn’t want to watch a man die, but he didn’t want to leave him alone either.

… All right, so there was Ernesto, but the guy - he kept refusing to tell them even his name - didn’t seem to like him at all. “You keep your eyes off my guitar. When I die, it comes with me,” he snapped, holding on the instrument he’d put across his knees after being leaned against the wall. He was glaring at Ernesto, who sat on a rock right across him. It was hard to tell if he was actually looking at the guitar: his eyes were difficult to see in the trembling shadows cast by the oil lamp. For a few moments it was as though there were no eyes at all; only the dark, empty sockets of a skull.

Héctor shivered, and forced himself to chase the thought away. He wasn’t a little kid anymore - he was almost a man - and that was a stupid idea. Of course Ernesto’s eyes were just fine; he was letting the dark get to him, that was all.

Unaware of his thoughts, Ernesto was shrugging. “I have a better one at home,” he said. It wasn’t true, really, that guitar looked better than Ernesto’s old one, but Héctor said nothing as his friend reached into a bag to pull out a bottle. “Better tequila, too. Whatever you’ve having smells awful,” he added, and took a swig before he held out the bottle to the man. “Come on. If it’s your last drink, let it be a decent one.”

The guy looked at him with narrowed eyes, suspicion plain on his face, then his jaw slackened just a bit and he took the bottle. “... Gracias.”

“De nada,” Ernesto muttered. He’d avoided to look at the blood soaking the uniform’s left leg, but now that it was covered by a blanket he seemed… oddly at ease, sitting across a man they knew was dying. But then again, he was older. A man.

And Héctor… he still felt like he was just a boy. “Is that better?” he finally asked as the man put the bottle down and smacked his lips. He grinned weakly.

“Not bad at all. You have taste, I’ll give you that.”

“You could say my old man is an expert,” Ernesto said with a shrug, and lit up a candle before he stood. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The thought of being left alone with a dying soldier, Imelda and the twins some distance away, made Héctor’s stomach clench. “Where are you going?”

“Answering nature’s call, chamaco.”

“Ah. Right.”

As Ernesto left - Héctor could see him turning left after leaving the gallery, further down in the earth - the man spoke again. “Your hermano?”

“Huh? Oh, sort of. He’s my best friend,” Héctor said, relaxing a little. It was something closer to casual chat, and it was better than talk about holding onto one’s guitar in death.

“Mph. And the adelita?”

“Adelita?”

“Hah! Don’t you call them that around here? The soldadera.”

“She’s not a soldadera. She’s just…” _Indescribable. Amazing. Brave. Fierce. Loyal. Funny. Clever._ “... Just Imelda. She’s a friend, too.”

The man guwaffed. “Well, she handled the rifle so well, could have fooled anyone,” he muttered, and smiled. “I like her, she’s got the heart of a lioness. Reminds me of someone I knew.”  He paused to rest a hand on the wound on his leg through the blanket, then grimaced. “It’s your friend I dislike. Eyes of a coyote. No, don’t like that.”

Héctor frowned. Now that was just unfair, and even if the man was dying he felt it was his duty to argue. “Ernesto is all right. A good friend. You don’t even know him,” he replied - and yet, something about his choice of words bothered him. Somewhere in the back of his mind a memory resurfaced, he and Ernesto looking at some mariachis performing in the local cantina from their hiding place, when they’d been only children.

He remembered Ernesto saying they were going to make music like that one day, he remembered the hungry look on his face and he remember, vaguely, thinking that he reminded him of a coyote staring at chickens from the other side of a fence. Then he shook his head, chasing the memory away as the man spoke again.

“If you say so,” he muttered, then. “Don’t let him take my guitar. I want to be buried with it.”

“He wouldn’t steal from a dead man!”

“Oh, he was about to. Just like a scavenger. Eyes of a coyote, I tell you.”

“He-- You’re not dead!”

“Ah, but I’ll be soon. A shame. I really wanted to make it back home,” he added, and sighed. For the first time, his rough features twisted in sorrow.

Héctor had to swallow a lump in his throat as he watched him turn the guitar in his arms and strum softly. He tried to imagine what his mother would do, what she would feel if his father was taken by the Federales. Once again, he prayed no such thing would happen - prayed he would return to the surface to find them both still there. “Is someone waiting for you at home?”

“Hah! I sure hope she is. But she’ll stop waiting eventually,” he said, and began playing, his thick, roughened fingers surprisingly delicate on the strings. He was not supposed to do that - even if they were pretty deep underground, it was best for them not to make noise - but he couldn’t find it in himself to say anything… and neither did the others. Héctor was aware, vaguely, of Imelda’s presence by his side, of the twins behind her, of Ernesto’s steps as he approached. None of them said anything.

“There’s a song she loved, you know? She always said it sounded like it was written for her,” the man was said, then he chuckled and sang, his voice weak as the music was gente.

 _“Everyone knows Juanita,_  
_Her eyes each a different color_ _  
Her teeth stick out and her chin goes in…”_

There was a word or two there that children were definitely not supposed to hear, but neither of the twins said a word and even Imelda stayed silent. The song came to an end, the notes faded and so did his voice. The man let out a long sigh before leaning his head back against the wall, still holding the guitar, and closed his eyes.

He did not open them again.

* * *

They took him into another tunnel, and buried him under earth and rocks, along with his guitar; Ernesto clearly thought it a waste, but didn’t argue too much once Imelda weighted in. Once the deed was done, no words were spoken. They each took a long swig of tequila in a silent toast - he could hold it a bit better, now - and in the end Héctor put the empty bottle down on the grave, as a marker. He really wished they had known his name.

But he has left them a song and that, Héctor supposed, was better than nothing at all.

* * *

“Ernesto!”

“Hola, mamá.”

There had been a time when his mother’s embraces had felt overbearing, trapping him like a snare. Now the hold around his neck felt like nothing; her entire weight, and he picked her up and spun, felt like nothing. He laughed like an idiot and she did, too, before he put her back down.

“Ay, Tito, I was so worried. I thought _they_ would never leave,” Adela exclaimed, kissing his cheek, and finally pulled back with a laugh. “You’re prickly as a cactus, mijo.”

“I do need a shave,” Ernesto grinned, and looked up to see his father standing a few feet from them; not quite sober but not drunk, either. “Papá.”

A nod. “They didn’t find you.”

“No. Who did they take this time?”

“Sebastián and Alejandro, that I know of. Surely other people,” he said, and shrugged. He didn’t seem to care too much. It had happened, same shit as always, so they may as well just be glad it hadn’t happened to _them_ and carry on. “Did you need to use that gun?”

“... No.”

“I hope you never do. But keep it, just in case.”

He did keep it, but he never had any reason to use it. He never had a reason to kill, until a fateful night in Mexico City - but even then, there was no bang or gunpowder or blood.

And there are cleaner ways to kill a man.

* * *

_“Mamá! Papá!”_

“Héctor!”

“Mijo!”

Throwing himself in his parents’ arms, the dread in his chest melting away, Héctor was vaguely aware that he was crying and he didn’t care. All that mattered were the arms around him, the tearful voices, the scent of home. He was there, _they_ were there.

Surely other people had been torn away from their homes; maybe even people he knew, because he knew almost everyone in Santa Cecilia. Héctor would ask, he would mourn, he would pray for their safe return - but that would have to wait. Right there and then there was only place for one thing in his chest: the simple, uncomplicated joy of being _home._

“A few of them passed by, but it was to demand food, thank God. We gave what we could, and they left.”

“Not without taking a good look at this gorgeous woman.”

“Ricardo!”

“One almost walked into the closed door on his way out. He was in love, I tell you. Good thing I snatched you first.”

“Haha! He’s exaggerating, Teto. As always.”

“Exaggerating, me? When do I ever!”

There was laughter, some tears, a home-cooked meal - and Héctor found himself unable to ask who was missing, unable to mention the man who had died in the mines. It would have felt like inviting the cruelty of the outside world within those walls, and he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to think of a woman who, somewhere, would wait in vain for a nameless soldier to come home - wait in vain to hear their song again.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, and his parents - who had little less than one year left to live - held him in their arms for another long minute.


End file.
